


What emerges by day (what fragments)

by Mellaithwen



Series: What reveals itself once night has cleared [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Batfamily Feels, Batman vs Superman - now with extra Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Missing Scene, Post-Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Reconciliation, batfamily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 01:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellaithwen/pseuds/Mellaithwen
Summary: Batman vs Superman AUAfter the battle against Doomsday, Dick goes looking for his father.They're saying that Superman is dead, but there’s still no word on the nocturnal Gotham vigilante and the clawing fear in the pit of Dick’s stomach just grows and grows and grows...





	What emerges by day (what fragments)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Uplift of ash and an inrush of dust, so you might want to read that first. The important thing to know is that at the start of Batman vs Superman, Bruce is running around Metropolis because he thinks Dick is inside the Wayne Financial building. 
> 
> .
> 
> This is set after the final big fight in Batman vs Superman.  
> The title, once again, is from Simon Armitage's poem _Out of the Blue_.
> 
> .

 

 

The radio crackles to life, and over the heavy static, two tinny voices report back and forth to each other in urgent tones.

 

They’re saying that there are fires burning in Metropolis, and that the power outages downtown have spread as far as Blüdhaven. They’re saying that the old abandoned port of Gotham has been levelled and that the creature that crawled out of the Kryptonian wreckage has been defeated.

 

They’re saying that Superman is dead.

 

But not one of them is mentioning the Bat.

 

Dick Grayson chews at his bottom lip as he tries to find a better frequency on his miniature modified police scanner. It’s the middle of the night, and the whole damn department has been called in to deal with the havoc of a city gripped in panic. The memory of eighteen months ago when the world was first introduced to Superman is still so fresh in everyone’s mind that they can’t help but think, _‘What now? What next?’_

 

But whilst everyone else is focused on ‘Haven during the blackout, Dick can’t deny that his attention is elsewhere. In the distance, the intermittent explosions over in Gotham have stopped, and while there’s been no official confirmation of much of anything yet, Dick’s heard the word _nuclear_ being bandied around enough times on the scanner to know that it’s serious.

 

Even from street-level, two cities over, the blast had felt _warm_...

 

 _Jesus fucking christ, what a fucking mess_ , Dick hears someone mutter over the not-so-encrypted transmission, but there’s still no word on the nocturnal Gotham vigilante, and the clawing fear in the pit of Dick’s stomach just grows and grows and grows.

 

 

...

  


 

There’s no answer at the lake house, or at the cave, and Dick can’t tell if it’s something to do with the next level power-surge from the Kryptonian ship, or if it’s just more of Bruce’s silent treatment.

 

He knows Batman stopped using the same comm frequency as him months ago— _God forbid the Dark Knight have any back up in his suicidal quest to rid the world of aliens_ —but Dick can’t help but focus on the all of the worst-case-scenarios, and it’s driving him mad. Bruce could be dead for all he knows, and Dick’s not sure he can stomach burying another member of his family so soon after Jason’s death.

 

He looks out the window at the beginnings of a storm, and thinks, _it was raining on that day too._ He remembers the _fwip fwip fwip_ of black umbrellas going up by the graveside, and Alfred sheltering him from the downpour, while Bruce refused the refrain.

 

It’s nearly another hour before his boss takes pity on his distracted work, and instead of chewing him out for not being on top of his game, says, _“You’re from Gotham, right?”_ and he nods, a little surprised that he’d let her creep up on him without even noticing. _Focus, Nightwing_ , he thinks frustratedly, in a voice that sounds not unlike his father.

 

“Go,” the Chief says, grabbing the case files from out of his hands and gesturing over to the door. “ _Now,_ Grayson, before I change my mind.”

 

So he does. He grabs his coat, and revs his bike all the way to the Gotham-City-Turnpike in the pouring rain.

 

Up ahead he can see the steady stream of headlights on dark roads as traffic starts to build-up on the freeway—as half of the city’s inhabitants decide to evacuate rather than risk sticking around for any kind of extra-terrestrial-repeat-performance so close to their hometown.

 

The only thing these people know for sure is that there has been some kind of attack, that Superman is involved, and that the Kryptonian ship that’s been sat dormant in downtown Metropolis for the better part of two years, has created some kind of blackout that’s managed to knock out Blüdhaven’s primary power-station.

 

It’s the _unknown_ that scares people, and Dick can relate.

 

He tries the bike’s comm’s again as he takes a right at the Newton Tunnels. He wants Alfred to pick up and tell him it’s a false alarm. He wants to intercept the local leo’s transmissions as they say, _10-4_ _Batman sighted over in the Narrows,_ but Dick can’t hear a thing over the rain that’s getting heavier by the second.

 

What started as a steady downpour in ‘Haven, has turned positively torrential as Dick makes it past the city limits into his hometown of Gotham. The fog’s so much thicker here, and the cold seems as if to sink into the very marrow of his bones as huge pellets of water thunder down on him. The asphalt looks more like a river than a road, and in the distance Dick can see smoke rising up from the wreckage of the abandoned port of Gotham.

 

Ash, like dusty snow, falls amidst the rain as it’s swept over from the still-burning fires. It sticks to the leather of Dick’s jacket, and leaves a fine layer over everything east of the river.

 

Most of the passing cars slow down to take a look, but Dick does the complete opposite. He accelerates, pushing his retrofitted motorbike to the limit, as he leaves the charred remains of the disaster site in his wake.  He drives until the city lights are little more than specks on the horizon behind him, while ahead the private road winds around to the large iron gates that lead onto the Wayne Estate.

 

To _home._

 

Or what’s left of it.

 

Wayne Manor stands like a hulking monument of the past—the skeletal remains of crumbling brick, surrounded by dead grass in the throes of Autumn. It looms above the quiet road, in all of its former glory, but Dick only has the luxury of giving the once warm and familiar homestead little more than a cursory glance as he heads further into the grounds.

 

There’s electricity in the air, and just as a booming burst of thunder rumbles above, there’s a sudden crack and flash of light as lightning strikes a gnarled tree by the side of the road. Dick only just manages to swerve out of the way in time, jerking his bike to the left and just narrowly missing the flaming branch that comes crashing down onto the ground behind him.

 

The heavy rain ensures that the fire doesn’t spread, but Dick has a feeling the storm’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.

 

Finally Dick slows down as he pulls into the driveway of the lake house, and he can’t help but shiver in the cold as he parks his bike out front, draping his helmet over the handlebars. He hasn’t been here in over a year, not since he and Bruce stopped talking. Not since they nearly came to blows over his newfound brand of vigilante justice.

 

 _You’re spiralling_ , he remembers screaming so clearly that night, after interrupting a particularly brutal interrogation that Batman had been conducting. _We don’t cross the line Bruce, that’s the whole point of_ —

 

 _No names in the field, Nightwing,_ Batman had all but spat back at the time, cruelly disregarding his son’s words. _Don’t you have your own city to patrol?_

 

Dick shakes himself off, and pushes the memories down deep. He’s gone over that night at least a hundred times in his head; what he could have said differently, how he might have approached it better, but none of that matters. It doesn’t change the fact that Batman was skirting dangerously close to doing the something he couldn’t come back from, and Dick was too tired to stand idly by and watch as his mentor, his father, destroyed himself from the inside out.

 

Dick lets himself into the lakehouse, and all at once he’s reminded of running through the entryway as a teenager, racing Jason to the decking out the back, desperate to get out of the muggy summer air and into the cool water of the private lake.

 

He taught Jason how to swim here.  He remembers the exact moment the boy had hesitated at the edge of the small pier, before shuffling backwards to read his book instead of diving in, nibbling at his bottom lip before discussing something with Bruce in hushed tones. And then when Dick had climbed out of the water, and lay down with a sigh on the empty lounger, warmed by the sun, Jason had swanned over with an air of confidence that Dick knew all-too-well was a ruse.

 

 _Teach me,_ the little boy had said, standing over his brother, blocking out the sun with his head and crossing his arms in that almost demanding way of his that was actually quite endearing.

 

 _Uh, you wanna rephrase that, little-wing?_ He remembers smirking back with an upturned brow, sharing a look of bemusement with Alfred and Bruce as they sat nearby.

 

 _Teach me to swim, pleeeeease_ , Jay had said with added emphasis, before crouching down to speak in hushed tones, sprawling on top of his brother for the sake of annoying him. _Alfred says you’re really good, and Bruce says I’m only allowed in the lake so long as you don’t mind teaching me._

 

And after plenty of assurances that Dick wouldn’t let the younger boy drown, it wasn’t long before the lessons had stuck, and within a half hour of mastering the front crawl, Jason had made it his sole mission to dunk his older brother at every opportunity.

 

 _Yeah you better run,_ Dick remembers yelling after the boy as he chased him around the lake, and back through the house. _You’re so dead!_

 

The place is empty now.

 

Empty, and quiet, and dark, and it puts Dick’s teeth on edge.

 

He finds himself slipping into his night-time persona on instinct. Staying close to the wall, he picks up an umbrella from out of the stand by the door, and holds it to his chest as a makeshift weapon. It won’t have the same result as one of his escrima sticks, but it’ll do for now. He clicks on the flashlight from out of his pocket, and creeps further into the house. The place is just as clinically clean as he remembers. So much more up-to-date than the Manor, and far more suited to a man and his butler, than a _family_.

 

The lake house was only ever supposed to be a temporary measure while the Manor was being rebuilt, but somewhere between the planning and the action, Bruce gave up, and focused all of his efforts on improving the cave beneath, instead of the grounds above. At the time, Dick had already enrolled in the Police Academy in the city, and he was grieving too—he hadn’t wanted to push—he regrets that now.

 

It’s still pitch-black outside, and all Dick can see in the wall-to-ceiling glass window is his own reflection, but Dick can still hear the heavy rainfall outside as it practically slams against the patio doors. He squints in the near-darkness, and the only other light he can see, save for his own flashlight, is a faint flickering coming from under the door of Bruce’s study.

 

He flicks on the light switch as he enters, and he can see that all of the television screens mounted against the wall are showing several news stations, all running at once.

 

Dick un-mutes the sound and suddenly the reporters on screen are all interrupting each other as the ticker-tape scrolls along the bottom. _Breaking News out of Gotham,_ they almost all say, over raw camera footage of something slamming into the side of a building. Another angle shows the plume of a nuclear blast going off high up above the atmosphere. GCN is interviewing a harried-looking bystander, while WMET-TV replays the moment the massive power-surge at the Kryptonian crash-site knocked out the electricity downtown. The stations aren’t reporting anything new, so Dick sighs and moves to leave.

 

In his haste he knocks over a case-file from off of his father’s desk, and the papers scatter in every direction. Dick spots a set of blueprints underneath a pile of documents. One looks like a contract, while another is just a memo regarding the well-publicized merger with Drake Industries. The rest are letters, and several returned cheques from the Wayne Industries Victim’s Fund.

 

 _Bruce Wayne = BLIND_ , one has scrawled all over it, _I am your ghost_ , says another in a manic hand. _I haunt you_ , says the final cheque dated from last month. And underneath all of that there’s an old newspaper, graffiti’d in the same red script;

 

_You let your family die._

 

Dick hopes it’s all in marker and not blood.

 

He’s read the article itself once before. Once and never again. What started as a report on the fall of Wayne Financial in the Metropolis attack two years ago, soon delved into an unnecessary commentary on the Wayne family legacy, and the tragic fate of those that bear its name.

 

It had mentioned Dick, and it had mentioned Jason. The full article had even included a picture of the three them at the Gotham Museum of Art Gala from five years ago. _Brucie and his boys_ . The Princes of Gotham. The closest thing to royalty that Gotham City has. Or, _had_.

 

 _Dozens killed_ , the article had gone on to say in black and white, underneath a photograph of Bruce digging through the rubble in a three-piece suit, scrambling in the wake of the Metropolis disaster. _The curse of the Wayne family continues._

 

 _Fuck you_ , Dick thinks uncharacteristically, clenching the paper tight in his fists. He remembers that day—waking up to one of his neighbour’s hammering against the door of his apartment. _“Grayson! Hey! Grayson, you in there? Earthquake! There’s an earthquake!”_ but of course it had been nothing of the sort.

 

He remembers how quickly the city had descended into chaos. He remembers trying to stop three teenagers looting the deli on the corner while the owner had tried to help the driver of a crashed vehicle out front. He remembers the awful booming sound that seemed to pulsate through the ground underneath his feet as alien ships ploughed through skyscrapers in the distance like they were made of tissue paper. He remembers the shining beacon of Metropolis’ financial district, toppling like a pack of cards, and he remembers the smoke, and smog as it marred the skyline with its horrible groundswell of ash and dust, soaring into the air like a terrible tsunami of concrete and stone.

 

And he remembers how later, when he couldn’t get through the road blockades surrounding the city, he had joined Alfred at the lakehouse, and they had both worried together, until the flash of a camera had shown Bruce Wayne on the Six O’Clock news. He’d been covered head to toe in white grit, digging through the rubble like a man possessed, standing toe to toe with other first responders in a bid to rescue any survivors from underneath the rock and cement that once represented some of the most influential powerhouses on the east coast.

 

And later that night, when Bruce had stumbled home, exhausted and injured but _alive,_ Dick remembers Alfred’s words, explaining his father’s insane actions so succinctly: _He thought you were there._

 

Bruce Wayne had seen the horror and carnage across the water from the safety of his boardroom, and, thinking that his son was caught in the middle of it, had barrelled headfirst into the chaos to search for Dick.

 

Dick, who was supposed to be attending the board-meeting in Metropolis like he had promised his father and Jack that he would. Dick, who was supposed to wear the nice suit that Alfred had delivered the week before, and sit through hours of discussions on the future of the company —nodding in all the right places, representing his father’s legacy with a charming smile and a typical playboy smirk that didn’t suit him in the slightest.

 

_Keep the board happy, keep up appearances. Do it, for me._

 

But instead he had been snoring—oblivious to the harried voicemails and missed-call notifications building up on his cell as it charged. Patrolling ‘Haven every night for a week, and then pulling a double shift at the precinct to help cover for a friend had been the last straw. Downtown Metropolis had been levelled, while Dick’s morning wake-up call had gone unanswered.

 

The phone rings on Bruce’s desk, jolting Dick out of his memories, and reminding him of the task at hand. The call goes to voicemail, just as all of Dick’s own previous attempts had. He dumps the papers back on the desk, and heads over to the bookcase. He carefully moves a framed photograph of all of them stood together smiling, to pull at the small catch hidden behind a hollowed out copy of _The Hounds of The Baskervilles_.

 

But the bookcase doesn’t move as Dick expects it to, and instead a keypad appears from behind a panel on the wall. _Another upgrade,_ Dick thinks frustratedly because this requires a code that he doesn’t have time to crack. He tries the time and date that Bruce’s parents were killed, but it doesn’t work—the elevator down to the cave doesn’t open—and he realises that he could try a million different possibilities and combinations, and still come up short.

 

But Dick doesn’t need to.

 

After all, he knows another way in.

 

 

...

 

 

It’s still raining when Dick rides his bike back to the ruins of the Manor, cutting across the overgrown fields. His tyres spray mud all over his uniform as they crush the stalks of dead grass on the ground in two, until he skids to a sudden stop, and all but leaps up the front steps of the place he once called home.

 

He remembers standing there for the first time as a terrified nine-year-old boy, staring up at the imposing front door in fear, but then Bruce had crouched down in front of him, and said, _“I know this is hard, and different, and—”_

 

 _“Scary,”_ Dick had supplied for him.

 

 _“And scary,”_ Bruce had agreed. _“But I’ve been where you are, and if I can help in any way, then I want to.”_

 

And then he’d stood up, and held his hand out for Dick to hold. He’d led him inside, and the room had been so brightly lit—the floor had been covered in plush carpet, and he could hear music playing from an old record player beside a warm log-fire. It took time, but things got easier. Easier to smile, easier to laugh, easier to start...anew.

 

The doors don’t open as easily now.

 

The ornately carved oak is covered in thick vines, and when Dick brushes them aside, they crumble in his fingertips, rotten and wasted, as though even nature has no desire to claim this tomb.

 

He picks the lock but even then the door won’t budge, and he has to use a considerable amount of his own body strength to force the ancient thing open. The lock splinters, but inside there’s no one stood waiting. There’s no music, no light, no warmth. The place is cold and bare. There are puddles of dirty water in various spots in the foyer, and whatever furnishings were salvageable after the blaze have long since been removed. His childhood purged and set alight by madmen and their vendettas.

 

He sighs as he distractedly runs his hand along the intricate carvings of the fireplace, disturbing the thick layers of dust there on the mantel. His fingers come away black with soot, and if he closes his eyes, he can still hear the flames from that night as they rumbled through the house. He can still taste ash and fear on his tongue. He can remember vividly pulling at Bruce’s arms, dragging him back and away from the blaze—the older man still clutching at a box of keepsakes he’d been desperately trying to save—not stopping until they’re both stumbling back onto the wet grass, and Alfred’s by their side, clutching onto them both for dear life...

 

A loud bang pulls him out of his reverie, and Dick spins around to see the half-broken front door to the Manor swinging back and forth in the wind as the storm outside continues to worsen.

 

The howling gale sweeps through the ruins of the house, and dead leaves seem as though to follow in Dick’s wake, swirling around his feet as he rushes down the corridor towards what used to be Thomas Wayne’s study.

 

The tall walls of the hallway that were once littered with paintings and photographs depicting the Wayne family lineage are bare now, with little more than squared outlines of untouched wallpaper to say that they were ever occupied at all.

 

Anything that survived the fire is in storage, and Dick can pinpoint what each empty rectangle represents; A painting of Bruce’s father as a child, with his parents looming over him in their own snug frame. A black and white photograph of Martha, commissioned by Vanity Fair. A portrait of a young Richard Grayson with a mischievous look in his eye, and mud on his lapel. And the last family photograph that included Jason, taken little more than a month before his death. Dick saw that one on the bookcase in the lake house earlier, where Bruce has no choice but to stare at it daily.

 

Reaching the study, Dick can see that some of the shelves of the in-built bookcase have slipped over time. The books that once sat there have long since been carted away and the white sheets that have been hung to cover the broken windows are torn and tattered. They sway back and forth angrily in the breeze, abandoned, like the rest of the derelict house.

 

But the grandfather clock is still standing.

 

The glass cover has long since shattered, and though its face is cracked, the frame of the clock remains intact. When Dick turns the hands to just shy of ten and ten, there’s a slight puff of dusty air from behind the hidden door, and it takes all of his strength to push the clock to one side—the rusty mechanisms creaking loudly as he does so—until finally there’s enough of a gap for him to squeeze through the old unused entryway to the Batcave.

 

The door slams shut behind him as he steps forward into the dark, showering him in a fine layer of grime and soot.

 

The rocky stairway is draped in layers of cobwebs, and Dick can hear the faint sounds of winged spies squeaking in the dark. The strip-lights that line the steps flicker intermittently, and some don’t even come on at all, but Dick doesn’t need them. He’d know the old route down to the cave blindfolded, lord knows he’d raced Batman to the bottom enough times…

 

 _Winner gets to drive the batmobile!_ He can practically hear the ghost of his younger self proclaim, followed by Batman’s distinctive growl, _Uh, no he most certainly does not!_

 

Further down, the steps are obscured by rubble, but nowhere near enough to stop a Flying Grayson from getting through. Dick scales the rocky wall with ease, leaping over the conveniently-placed-debris. He grabs a hold of some of the old wiring from the strip-lights in mid-air, and correctly calculates the necessary pull needed to have it break free from its hooks, using it as a line to allow him to sail over the rubble, until he lands expertly in the middle of the lower-levels of the Batcave.

 

The monitors in this section are old and disconnected, and at the base of the stairwell across from him, he can see a suit suspended in a glass case. It’s his brother’s uniform—preserved in all of its horror, from the night that he died—still riddled with holes, still stained with blood and spray paint. Jason’s old gauntlets hold a weapon aloft as though caught in a perpetual battle. Forever fighting. _A good soldier_. A dead child. Dick shudders.

 

He remembers how vehemently he’d argued with Bruce about Jason wearing the colours that belonged to _him_. Using the name that his mother had bestowed upon him before her death. He fought with Bruce so many times back then, and there’s no way it escaped Jason’s attention, despite Richard’s efforts to the contrary. Even without the Bat-training, the boy was clever and observant, and surprisingly sensitive to other people’s opinions of him.

 

Dick had no problem with Jason, he _loved_ the boy. But _Robin_ ? That was far more complicated. And it didn’t matter that Dick came to terms with everything eventually, or that he was happier under his Nightwing moniker in the end, not when their time together was cut short so suddenly. No when he’d wasted so many months that he could have spent teaching Jason something that might have saved his life in the end. _Too little, too late._

 

Dick takes a deep breath and presses his forehead up against the glass—already so overwhelmed by the painful memories associated with being back—but when he looks down, he spots the muddy tyre tracks on the lower levels leading all the way up to where the Batmobile has been left abandoned with the driver side door still open.

 

His guilt momentarily pushed to one side, Dick races across the platform to the newer sections of the cave. He sees Bruce’s armoured cowl on the ground—shattered almost in two, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He passes by the med-bay and sees a gauntlet, strewn on the floor, and then another, before he hears a loud thud, followed by the muffled voice of someone’s alarm.

 

 _Alfred_.

 

Dick almost trips over another cowl when he makes it to the showers in time to see Bruce on his knees on the wet tile, with Alfred beside him, struggling to keep his charge upright. Bruce’s head is lolling to one side, his eyes are closed, and he’s still half dressed in the Batsuit, with only his chest bare to the shower-spray that’s currently soaking Alfred’s clothes.

 

“Master Dick,” Alfred says, a little breathlessly, grunting somewhat as he struggles to keep the deadweight in his arms upright. “Your timing is impeccable as always.”

 

 

…

  
  


Dick had expected to find Bruce hunched over the computers in the cave, hiding an injury or three, and answering any of his son’s queries in a terse tone, if at all, but he hadn’t expected this.

 

He hadn’t expected to find him unconscious in Alfred’s arms, looking so painfully pale and soaked from the shower-spray, his exposed chest mottled with deep, dark bruises _—_ still wearing half of the Batsuit as though he had given up on undressing completely.

 

“What happened?” Dick asks, sliding to his knees to grab Bruce by the shoulders so that Alfred can get to his feet to turn off the water. Bruce’s head falls to the side, cradled against Dick’s chest, and the stubble on his face looks a couple days old. There’s grey hair there peppering the black in a way that Dick doesn’t remember, and even unconscious, the man looks troubled—and so much older _—_ as though he’d been grimacing non-stop since the day Dick left, and the expression had stuck.

 

“I lost contact with him hours ago,” Alfred says, with a concerned tone, as he gently rests his palm against Bruce’s forehead. His eyelids flutter a little, but they don’t open, but he still leans into Alfred’s touch as if he can sense the feeling of safety it instinctively instils in him, and the old man’s face crumples for a moment. “Stay with us, Bruce,” he quietly pleads, his gaze haunted from having to do this one too-many times.

 

“Did he hit his head?” Dick asks, gently probing Bruce’s wet hair to check for any gashes that could be hidden there amidst the bruising, before resting his hand on his father’s neck, and reassuring himself with the steady heartbeat that he can feel there just underneath his fingertips.

 

“No, I don’t believe so, but...I didn’t even realise he was here until I heard him fall.” Dick can hear something akin to guilt in Alfred’s tone, and he watches as the man gets to his feet. “I’ll go ready the med-bay, can you—?”

 

“Yeah, Alf,” Dick says quietly before the older man even needs to finish, letting his father lean against him in the low-light of the cave’s changing room, shouldering the burden with ease. “I’ve got him.”

 

Left alone with the Batman, Dick sags down slowly against the tile, moving carefully so as not to jostle the body in his arms. He hasn’t seen his father in over a year. He’s seen Bruce Wayne on television enough times of course, publicising the rebuilding of Metropolis, promoting the city of Gotham, and he’s even seen the Batman once on patrol, but this? This strange combination of the two that is his father? No, for him, it’s been a much longer absence.

 

Looking down, he finds himself categorising Bruce’s wounds as he sits there, trying to visualise how he might have gotten each one. There’s no shortage of bruising on the man’s stomach, and shallow cuts and grazes where hit after hit had no doubt weakened the integrity of the armour he’d been wearing.

 

There’s a field-bandage hastily wrapped around his bicep—but it’s sodden through from the interrupted shower, and when Dick takes a look, he sees what he can only assume is a shrapnel wound, caked in dried blood and still bleeding sluggishly. It’s not too deep, thankfully, but it will certainly require a clean, and no doubt several stitches.  Dick heard plenty of explosions from across the river this evening, so maybe whatever caused them had sent debris in Batman’s direction.

 

Maybe it was the creature.

 

Maybe it was Superman defending himself.

 

Maybe Batman tripped over his own grapple line, and didn’t actually have anything to do with the nightmare in Metropolis, and all of this is just a big coincidence that needs no further discussion.

 

_“Superman did this—he brought the War to us, and if we’re not ready, if we’re not—”_

 

_“Bullshit! This started way before the Metropolis attack and you know it. Beating the shit out of gang members isn’t going to bring Jas—”_

 

_“I’d think twice before finishing that sentence if I were you, Nightwing.”_

 

Then again, maybe not.

 

He lets out another sigh, burying his head in Bruce’s hair, and breathing in the familiar scent of cordite and aftershave that lingers there.

 

He gently squeezes his father’s arms, which is precisely when he notices a puckered knot of scar tissue on Bruce’s right shoulder, hidden amidst the older, more weathered scars. Even though Dick can recognise that it’s a bullet-wound that’s at least three months old, it’s not one that he’s seen before, and he suddenly feels very cold at the thought of his father being shot, and Dick never even knowing about it.

 

_Damn it Bruce, how did it come to this?_

 

He wonders if this is how Bruce felt every time his sons got hurt in the field. Powerless. Like all the training in the world doesn’t amount to shit when your opponent is leagues ahead of you. Like nothing can really prepare you for the inevitable...

 

But Dick doesn’t have much time to ponder over the role reversal as Alfred returns then and together they manage to get Bruce onto the gurney that’s there waiting for him.

 

Dick watches in an almost detached fashion as Alfred triages the worst of Bruce’s injuries, while Dick diligently stands off to one-side—ready to provide assistance when called upon by the expert.

 

“Bruce,” Alfred calls, gently trying to coax the man awake once more, tapping his hand against his cheek before running his knuckles along his sternum. “Can you hear me, son? Bruce?”

 

But he gets no response.

 

“His airways clear, and his breathing seems alright,” Alfred mutters to himself as he works his way through Bruce’s injuries, before beckoning Dick forward to help get him out of the rest of the Batsuit.

 

Bruce has at least two broken ribs, of that Dick’s certain, and the purple bruising that wraps around his hip bone looks angry and painful. His right knee is swollen and Alfred gently prods at the muscle as he examines it with a frown before making a note to x-ray it a little while.

 

As well as the shrapnel wound in his arm, there’s another gash on his back, that Dick hadn’t spotted earlier, and even though it’s superficial at best, it certainly explains the tacky red residue that’s been left behind on Dick’s shirt.

 

His pupils react sluggishly to the flashlight that Dick hands Alfred to shine in on them, and he can see that his left eye is almost completely red—bloody and garish from a burst blood vessel that’s flooded the whites of his sclera, though Bruce himself remains out for the count.

 

Dick’s pretty sure his father’s wrist is fractured, and when he imagines the force required to pummel a God into submission, really, he’s not surprised. The knuckles on both of his hands are split raw, and the bruising looks deep.

 

He grits his teeth at the state of the man that raised him, frowning at the red indentations all over Bruce’s torso in the outline of whatever new armour Batman’s decided to clad himself in. He must have hit a wall, or been knocked down _hard_ for it to have left such a lasting impression. He thinks the extra armour makes him indestructible, but it doesn’t change the mortal man beneath it, and if the tables were turned, Bruce would never forgive such a blatant disregard for his own well being.

 

But of course, the rules don’t apply to _Batman._

 

“Idiot,” Dick mutters under his breath, and Alfred raises an eyebrow.

 

“What was that Master Dick?”

 

“Nothing, Alfred,” he says innocently, handing him gauze and bandages when he’s asked. After an hour or so of careful ministrations, and three seperate x-rays, the butler—whom Dick has always regarded as more of a grandfather in his own right—announces that they’ve done all that they can, and now all they can do is wait.

 

Dick drags a stool over to the side of the bed to remain close, and out of the corner of his eye he sees as Alfred grabs two grey fleece-blankets from out of a nearby locker. But to Dick’s surprise, instead of putting both of them over Bruce like he’d supposed he would, the man drapes one over Dick’s shoulders instead.

 

“You’re freezing my boy,” he says gently, squeezing Dick’s shoulders in an affectionate manner as he does so. “Stay here, I’ll fetch you some dry clothes.”

 

“Thanks, Al,” Dick says a little sleepily, letting loose a yawn as soon as he’s alone with only his father’s prone form for company. His head feels heavy, and the weight of fear and concern that’s been churning away at him for the last few hours seems as if to drag him down further into his own exhaustion. He rests his head over his own hands where they’re held fast in Bruce’s lax fingers and he lets the soft and steady beeping of the portable heart monitor lull him to sleep.  

 

 

…

 

 

_Teach me to swim Dick-Wonder, Jason yells from the middle of the lake where he’s treading water in his Robin uniform like a pro._

 

_You got this kiddo, you don’t need me, Dick calls back, as he moves to leave._

 

_Yes I do! The voice insists, and Dick turns back around to see that the lake has turned a horrible blood-red and Jason’s head is under the water. In the distance, someone is laughing._

 

_No—_

 

He wakes up to the comforting sensation of fingers carding through his hair. It’s nice, and it reminds him of when he was so much younger, and he would fall asleep in his Bruce’s arms, after a particularly bad nightmare.

 

But as awareness comes back to him, so too does the coiled anxiety of the dream, and like a spring, he can’t help but snap awake, inadvertently knocking the gentle hand away as he does so.

 

He hears a wince from the occupant of the bed, and opens his eyes to see Bruce cradling his hand to his chest.

 

“Shit, Bruce, I’m sorry,” Dick says, reaching over to gently check that the brace is still intact on his injured wrist. He realises then that Bruce hasn’t said a word, and instead has been tracking Dick’s every movement with heavy-lidded eyes, in silence.

 

“Bruce?” Dick tries again to get his attention, worried that the head injury might have been worse than they supposed. He’s about to call for Alfred, when he hears Bruce speak up quietly.

 

“...you’re here…” He says, slurring ever so slightly, though if it’s from exhaustion, or pain, Dick’s not sure. “...thought I was dreaming...”

 

“Oh,” is all Dick can say in response. “Well, I’m right here, so...you’re not.”

 

Bruce nods at that, smacking his lips together for a moment, and seeming as if to drift off again, before jolting suddenly, and looking around the room once more. Zeroing back in on Dick, he looks him up and down, before reaching out to rest his hand on his son’s head.

 

“You’re freezing,” he says, before looking down at the blanket hanging low on Dick’s shoulders, and the police uniform that he had fallen asleep wearing, “and you’re soaked.”

 

“Don’t worry about me, worry about _you_.”

 

“‘M’fine Robin,” he mumbles in response, and Dick goes very still. Bruce doesn’t seem to have noticed the slip-up, but hearing the old name leaves Dick’s heart stuttering, for more reasons than one. He thinks back to the glass case he saw earlier, the one that holds Jason’s suit—still tarnished with the horror of that night, with the Joker’s mark—and he shudders.

 

“No you’re not,” he says, laughing darkly under his breath, still feeling a little manic from the after-effects of fear and adrenaline, and so little sleep. “You’re not _fine_ .” Bruce frowns but he doesn’t respond, and so Dick continues, “you’re so far removed from fine it’s _ridiculous_.”

 

Bruce gives him a haunted look, and Dick knows that he’s pushing, he knows. He knows that if he’s not careful Bruce will shut him out again. Always closing himself off when he’s most vulnerable, but Dick can’t help himself. His legs are shaking restlessly, and he knows he has to let _something_ out before it consumes him whole.

 

“You could have died,” he whispers a little harshly, scrubbing his hands over his face, before getting to his feet to pace at the foot of the bed, the blanket forgotten on the chair, along with the pile of clean, dry clothes Alfred must have left for him while he slept. “You practically went on a _suicide_ mission, and _—_ ” His shoulders sag, and he heaves in a broken breath, unable to continue.

 

He expects Bruce’s anger, or worse, his indifference, and so he turns away before he can bear witness to either. Isn’t that how this argument usually goes? Bruce pushing him away so that Dick’s not there to stop the Bat from finally crossing that line. Keeping his son at arms length so he can’t be reminded of the one that he lost.

 

There’s a scuffle from behind him, and Dick turns around to see Bruce moving to push himself upright as if to stand, reaching out for his son as though he were afraid he might leave.

 

“Woah, Bruce—wait, wait!” Dick shouts but even in his current state, Batman’s too fast for him. By the time Dick’s leapt over to the other side of the bed, Bruce has already tried to stand only for his legs to give out from under him, toppling forward into his son’s arms. Dick grunts at the sudden weight aggravating his own weary body, and Bruce, being Bruce, notices instantly.

 

“You’re hurt,” Batman says simply, though his voice is quieter than usual.

 

“You gotta be careful B,” Dick replies, conveniently ignoring the statement. “Your knee was pretty swollen, I think you must have twisted it.”

 

“Hnn,” Bruce grunts in agreement when he goes again to put weight on said appendage, only to be met with a sudden and sharp pain from the joint. His wince is visible even to the untrained eye, and that tells Dick a lot.

 

“All those extreme sports I’ve been playing,” he quips then, parroting the lie they all perpetuate to the media, and Dick tries his best to hide his surprise at Bruce making a joke. It’s been awhile since even the barest of levity could creep into their conversations.

 

It doesn’t last long.  

 

“You’re favouring your left side.”

 

“Maybe that’s just ‘cause you’re heavy, did you ever think of that?” Dick tries to deflect.

 

“Your ribs?” Bruce continues, allowing Dick to maneuver him back to sit on the edge of the bed _—_ sweeping the the melted ice packs out of the way to one side as he does so.

 

“They’re just bruised,” Dick says finally, admitting defeat because the World’s Greatest Detective has a tendency to not let things go, and he’d rather have the conversation now before Alfred returns. “Interrupted a bank robbery last Tuesday.”

 

“Blüdhaven National,” Bruce says knowingly, no doubt having kept tabs on any and all of Officer Grayson’s reports of late. “That was good work.”

 

“Uh, thank you?”

 

“You should have been more careful.”

 

 _And there it is,_ Dick thinks, almost laughing incredulously under his breath, though even he can tell that it’s an admonishment borne out of concern, more than anything else. Bruce goes to move once more, but this time it’s with a purpose, and he ignores Dick’s protests to the contrary, just as he bats away Dick’s attempts to help, swaying a little as he does so.

 

“Why do you always have to be so stubborn? You need to rest.”

 

“I can rest upstairs.”

 

Dick growls in frustration at that, though he’s not surprised that Bruce is adamant that he wants to go up to the lake house, to his own bedroom. After all, the cave doesn’t have a door he can shut himself away behind, but the house above has several.

 

“I can walk,” Bruce says, when once more his son tries to help him to his feet, and Dick can see exactly what his father’s doing. He’s goading Dick, picking a fight to be on the offensive, so he doesn’t have to wait for the fight to come to him, or worse, forcing him to leave now because he thinks he’s just going to end up leaving anyway. Bruce is trying to control the variables before the variables have even had their goddamn morning cereal, and Dick is not in the mood.

 

“Actually Bruce, _you can’t_ , so stop fighting and let me help you already, or I’ll call Alfred, and then you’ll be sorry.” Dick says suddenly, a little harsher than intended, but Batman—for the first time in a long time—appears mollified, and he doesn’t argue any further, not even when Dick crouches beside him, to hook his arm over his shoulder, and hoist him up to a standing position.

 

It’s slow going as Bruce refuses to use any kind of wheelchair, and as they step into the lift, Dick breaks the silence that he mostly caused, by remarking that he’ll have to get the keypad combination from them for future notice. He’s making it clear that he won’t be pushed away again, but that’s not what Bruce ends up focusing on.

 

“You couldn’t work out the combination?” He asks, tilting his head in surprise, and it suddenly occurs to Dick then that Bruce had simply expected Dick to crack the lake house entry code in his own way, as if had been a certainty that needed no contingency plan. “Then how did you get in?”

  
“The old entrance by the grandfather clock.”

 

And now it’s Bruce’s turn to frown. “In the Manor? But the stairwell’s sealed off.”

 

“I flew.” Dick smirks when the elevator doors finally open to Bruce’s private office, to find Alfred already standing there waiting to help carry Batman to bed.

 

Dick’s never been more than grateful for the older man’s infallible intuition, and by the looks of things neither has Bruce, as he passes out almost as soon as his head hits the clean sheets, clearly more than a little exhausted from whatever battle he found himself in the middle of last night.

 

Alfred busies himself with clearing away a selection of empty wine glasses by the side of the bed, while Dick arranges the pillows to help keep Bruce’s swollen knee elevated. He spots a collection of topical analgesics on the nightstand, next to three stacked pill bottles all prescribed in Bruce’s name, and he finds himself wondering again just how far past his own limits Batman has been pushing himself these last few months.

 

And just how much of that is driven by guilt.

 

He grabs an old t-shirt of Bruce’s to change into—the Gotham Rogues decal is old and cracked and faded, but immeasurably more comfortable than the bloodstained, cold and wet uniform shirt, Dick’s currently wearing, and he covers his father with a warm blanket. He gives Bruce’s bruised face one last look before quietly stepping out into the corridor, and letting the door close with a quiet _click_.

 

Unaware of his audience, Dick can see Alfred’s head is in his hands as he takes a deep breath by the side of the sink in the kitchen. It occurs to Dick almost suddenly that this is maybe the first time he’s seen the older man look so unguarded. Hunched over as he is, it’s as though the weight of the world is pressing down on top of his shoulders, and Dick wants nothing more than to reassure him.

 

But when he takes another step, a floorboard beneath his foot creaks, and his presence is known. He realises that he and Bruce aren’t the only ones to wear masks, when Alfred’s own shutters into place. It may not have the dramatic flare of Batman’s cowl, but it’s certainly just as prevalent.

 

Alfred goes back to washing the glasses in the sink, carefully scrubbing at the lipstick stains on the rim of one, before drying them off, and putting them away in the cabinet once more. Resolutely refusing to look Dick in the eye as he does so.

 

“You don’t have to put up a front, you know,” Dick says, almost casually, as he boils the kettle, before practically diving into the back of one of the bottom cupboards, in search of something. He finds an old container of powdered hot chocolate, and brandishes it with pleasure. “Alfred, it’s _me_ for god's sake.”

 

“Quite, Master Dick,” Alfred replies, with the smallest of smiles, “but sometimes a man’s composure is all he has.” He says, watching fondly as the boy prepares two mugs of warm cocoa, before following him as he takes both mugs to the small glass table by the window.

 

“A perfect consistency, lad.” Alfred remarks, as he takes a sip of the smooth drink, and the praise leaves Dick grinning.

 

“Learnt from the best,” he nods, taking his own mouthful of the drink, and relishing in the sugary warmth that spreads through his insides. “You know, _this_ really brought me and Jason together,” he says, gesturing to the mug in his hands. “You were away, I think, and Jason was ill. It must have been the first time the kid had gotten sick since coming to the Manor, and Bruce was freaking out—”

 

“I remember,” Alfred says fondly. “I had gone to Edinburgh, and the young Master had quite cleverly managed to hide his symptoms until after I was gone.”

 

“—I think Jay was scared to show weakness, y’know? He’d only been at the Manor for a couple months.” Dick continues, tracing his finger along the rim of the cup where a layer of the chocolatey drink had gathered. “By the time I got there, he wouldn’t even let Bruce in his room, so he was just camped outside listening to the kid sneeze, and everyone was _miserable._ ”

 

Back then, Bruce had rung Dick in a fluster, and Dick had misunderstood—a hundred horrible possibilities running through his head—for the Batman to be unable to tackle something, it had to be bad. He hadn’t had time to consider calling Leslie on his way out, instead he had jumped on his bike and broken several traffic laws to get to the Manor in record time. Only to find out that no one was at death’s door, just that Bruce was sat outside of Jason’s.

 

 _“He told me to get out.”_ Bruce had said, though the harsh line of his jaw told Dick that he clearly wasn’t happy about that particular turn of events. And so Dick had decided to give it a try, with a trick or two up his sleeve...

 

 _“Hey,”_ Dick remembers the little kid’s head popping up from out of several layers of blankets, sniffling awkwardly, almost self-consciously so at seeing the older boy in his room. He had stared at the mug that Dick was handing to him with a wary look, before saying, with a distinct croak in his voice. _“Da—Bruce tried that already.”_

 

The tips of his ears had gone pink at the title he had clearly wanted to bestow on his new father-figure, and his embarrassment only served to deepen his little pout.

 

 _“You can call him that if you want, Jay,”_ Dick had told him kindly, as he sat on the edge of the bed. _“Whatever makes you comfortable.”_

 

 _“You don’t.”_ The boy had pointed out grouchily, _“and I bet you don’t get sick either.”_

 

 _“Sometimes I do,”_ Dick had laughed. “ _And sometimes I call Bruce ‘Dad’ too. But Jay, you don’t have to do everything the same way as me, trust me. You’re your own person, don’t forget that._ ”

 

And Jason had nodded sleepily at that before taking a sip of the drink in his hands. His eyes had lit up almost instantly—his eyebrows jumping into his hairline at the familiar taste of well-made Cadburys cocoa.

 

_“It tastes just like Alfred’s!”_

 

_“When you’re feeling better I’ll show you how to do it right,” Dick had promised, winking as he ruffled the boy’s curls, before whispering conspiratorially. “We’ll keep it a secret between us Robins, okay?”_

 

“Master Bruce never did perfect the culinary arts,” Alfred says wryly, while Dick smiles at the memory he’s been recounting. “Though not for lack of trying.”

 

“You’re telling me.”

 

“You were always so quiet when you were ill. Quite content to sleep, and be coddled, but Master Jason was exactly like Master Bruce as a boy. So afraid to let his guard down, so _stubborn_.” Alfred says with a far-off look, no doubt caught in his own memories of the boy they lost.

 

“Nothing’s changed there then.” Dick concedes.

 

“Indeed,” the older man agrees, and it’s then that Dick realises with a pang of guilt, that this whole time Alfred’s been the one who’s been caught in the middle of Dick and Bruce’s fight, unwilling—unable—to take sides, and as a result, abandoned in the no-man’s-land between. He takes another look around the house, and something suddenly becomes all too apparent.

 

“You don’t live here, do you?”

 

“The old groundskeeper used to have a little cottage a mile or so down the road. It’s more than enough for me.”

 

Dick thinks back to when they would all live together under one roof, but then, so much has changed since then that he doubts they could ever go back to the way it once was.

 

“Sounds lonely,” Dick remarks honestly, berating himself internally for not visiting sooner, and he receives a pat on the hand in response.

 

“Your father thinks that if he pushes us away, it will hurt less when he gets himself killed.” Alfred tells him, a little profoundly, in a gruff tone, as he takes off his glasses to gently wipe at the lenses, before replacing them once more.

 

Dick looks out to the lake, and watches as the pre-dawn mist floats listlessly above the water. Last night’s storm has lost all of its ferocity, and the rain is little more than a drizzle now that will no doubt have cleared by the time the sun starts to rise.

 

“Well he’s wrong,” he tells Alfred simply.

 

“I know.”

 

It takes a beat for Dick to realise that the words aren’t coming from Alfred’s direction at all, and he turns around to see Bruce standing in the doorway of his room, clutching onto the frame to keep himself upright. His skin is pale and clammy and his muscles are shaking from the exertion, but he seems more alert for all the good a twenty-minute nap can do for someone with a thirty-year case of insomnia.

 

“The whole point of bringing you up from the cave was so you would rest—”

 

“Alfred, I’m sorry,” Bruce says, interrupting the man’s concern as he shakes his head as if to disregard the need for the apology in the first place. “The Manor was your home too, _both_ of you,” he adds looking over at Dick, “but I knew rebuilding meant tearing everything else down, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t do it.”

 

Dick nods at the words, but instead of replying he gets up and focuses on steering Bruce back in the direction of his bed. “We don’t have to talk about this now,” Dick tells him. “At least not when you should be lying down.”

 

“I need to talk to Diana,” Bruce says, almost to himself as he resists the gentle nudging, “I have to make sure Luthor’s still contained, I need to make him—”

 

 _Pay,_ Dick hears, though Bruce doesn’t say it outright as he mutters about everything else he needs to deal with in the wake of Superman’s death.

 

“Luthor?” Dick asks, “what the hell does Luthor have to do with this?”

 

“I’m afraid he’s been manipulating us all for quite some time.” Alfred says, as he appears in the doorway holding the graffiti’d newspaper Dick had spotted earlier. The implication that it was Luthor’s handiwork is made clear. _You let your family die_. Of course those words would hit Bruce hard.

 

“He sent you that?”

 

Bruce nods as he gets himself settled on the bed once more. “He might as well have. He orchestrated all of this. He pitted me against Superman, and I let him. I let him manipulate me. Not because he was clever, or _right_ , but because I was so desperate for someone to blame, that I didn’t question what was right in front of me.”

 

Alfred sets a mug down on the bedside table beside Bruce, with a packet of pills and the distinct impression that he is to take them, promptly.

 

“He created that monster, and in the end it was the person that I was ready to….to kill—” he hisses as though the words leave a bitter taste in his mouth “—that saved us. Superman didn’t even hesitate to give his life to stop that thing. He just _did_ it.” Bruce stops for a moment. His eyes linger on the newspaper clipping, before darting between Dick and Alfred at his side. “That creature might have been the one to finish it, but I sure as hell started it.”

 

“You would have stopped,” Dick says succinctly, because even if he doesn’t know the finer points of what happened last night he still knows Bruce, better that anyone. “You _did_ stop. We don’t kill—”

  
“We don’t brand criminals either,” Bruce says quietly and it takes Dick a second to realise that his own words from his last argument with his father are being parroted back to him. Figures Bruce only listens when it suits him.

 

“You’re right, but blaming yourself for his death won’t bring him back.” And Dick doesn’t go on to specify if he’s talking about Superman, or Jason. He doesn’t need to, the statement stands.

 

“Bruce,” Dick continues quietly. “When Jason died I lost you as well,” and a part of him hadn’t realised just how true that was until the words were wrenched out of him to linger in the air between them both. But it’s out now, and Dick can’t take it back. “I don’t want that to happen again." He says, and Bruce nods, accepting the words for the brutal truth that they are.

 

“I never wanted that,” he says. “I’m sorry,” and Dick’s heard that so many times over the last few years, though oftentimes he’s just been eavesdropping on a grieving father, as he presses his hands against the glass case that holds his son’s suit.

 

“I only ever wanted to protect you.” Bruce continues quietly, as Dick leans sideways on the bed, gently ducking his head under his father’s arm to rest against his chest.

 

“I know Bruce, but what’s the point if you won’t even protect yourself?” Dick asks, his voice muffled somewhat in his current position.

 

“The young Master does have a point.” Alfred pipes up helpfully, never one to shy away from admonishing Bruce and his lack of self-care.

 

“I…” Bruce starts to say before faltering. He opens and closes his mouth with his best impression of a fish struggling to breath before the words return to him once more. “I need to do better. I _will_ do better.”

 

“Good,” Dick says, apparently appeased for the moment.

 

“Quite,” Alfred concurs, as he readjusts the blankets to cover Bruce _and_ Dick on the bed. “Now,” he says, with a tone of voice that’s not to be disagreed with. “The world will still need saving in the morning, so there’s no excuse for getting up again until then. Do I make myself clear, Master Bruce?” He asks, though Dick doubts he actually expects an answer.

 

“Alfred you should stay,” Dick says instead when he sees that the older man is about to leave. He feels a little childish for asking, but with everyone’s emotions running at an all time high, he’s a little desperate to have his whole family together again for as long as possible.

 

“I couldn’t possibly Master Dick—”

 

“Al, stay.” Bruce echoes, and Alfred’s steadfast resolve crumbles.

 

“Alright then, I suppose a few minutes can’t hurt,” he says, situating himself on Bruce’s left side, as Dick already has his right flank covered, and they half-lie there, in companionable silence, until soon, all three of them start to drift to sleep.

 

 

...

 

 

Dick wakes up to the sound of Bruce and Alfred talking in hushed tones. From his somewhat awkward position on his front, with half of the sheets and a folded pillow buried underneath his elbow, he can crack one-eye open without being seen, and maintain the illusion of slumber.

 

Alfred is humming to himself as he takes the small thermometer from out of Bruce’s mouth and stares at the results.

 

“Will I make it, doc?” Bruce asks, before he’s met with a sharp look.

 

“Don’t joke.” Alfred says sternly, before sighing, and putting the small glass tube to one side. “You have a low-grade fever,” he adds, “but nothing I wouldn't expect from your injuries,” and Bruce gives him a wan, somewhat apologetic smile.

 

“I’m okay, Alfred, _really_ ,” and they share a look then—one that Dick has seen many times over the years, a silent communication between the two of them that conveys more than words ever could.

 

“I still think you could have left the fighting of a genetically engineered super-alien for the gods and goddesses to handle.”

 

“Maybe next time,” Bruce responds sarcastically, and he waits a beat before saying in a more solemn tone; “Diana took his body home.”

 

And maybe there’s something in his father’s voice that gives it away, but Dick instinctively knows that they’re not talking about the creature anymore, and that _home_ is not somewhere far off in space—but rather Earthbound. That must mean that Bruce knows Superman’s identity.

 

But Dick won’t ask, and he doesn’t ask who Diana is either. He doesn’t question Bruce’s sadness in the wake of an outcome he himself had been aiming for— _the death of Superman_ —but when he sees Bruce’s head dipped forward, in a mixture of exhaustion and grief, he edges a little closer, making sure that his presence is felt, and that Bruce knows his shoulder is there for his father to lean on, whether Dick is pretending to sleep or not.

 

“Thanks chum,” Bruce whispers, before turning back to Alfred to resume whatever conversation they’d been having before Dick had woken up.

 

“Something’s coming Alfred,” Bruce says, as cryptically as ever. “Something bad.”

 

“We’ve dealt with bad before.”

 

“Not like this we haven’t. This is different, and we have to be ready.”

 

If Dick didn’t know any better, he’d think that his father sounded scared, but that can only mean that the stakes are higher, and that Batman will need all the backup he can get.

 

“So what’s the plan?” Dick asks, giving up any pretense of sleep, as he sits upright in the bed beside Bruce and Alfred. There are papers spread over the bed that Alfred must have grabbed from the cave, and Dick recognises the Batcave’s mainframe being projected on the television on the wall.

 

“Dick, I don’t—”

 

“No.” Dick interrupts unapologetically. He’s come too far to stop now. He won’t have the same old argument thrown back in his face. Not after everything. “You don’t get to push me away, not again. I’m not gonna let you run yourself into the ground—I’ve buried enough of my family as it is.” He sighs. “Look, I’m not Robin, Bruce. I stopped being him way before Jason earned the title. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still your partner. So if you’re gonna go save the world from what? Some kind of...apocalypse? Then I want in.”

 

Outside the lake house, the storm has passed. Last night’s fog has lifted over Gotham, and the sun has started to peek over the trees that line the other side of the lake. The glass of the patio doors is still wet with rain, but the air is finally dry. It’s a new day, and it’s the perfect time for new beginnings.

 

“So—” Dick says, taking Bruce’s silence as the closest thing to an agreement as he’s ever likely to get, as he looks between Alfred, his father, and the metahuman files currently displayed on the television screen in front of them, “—where do we start?”

  


 

\--Fin.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ......and then Justice League happens.....
> 
> I have been working on this on and off for the better part of a year, so I'm crazy happy I managed to get it done before Justice League comes out on Friday, because I know that's going to consume my brain, so there's no way anything else will get done after that.
> 
> Feel free to say hello on [tumblr](http://mellaithwen.tumblr.com/) :)


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